


Shadows and Ashes

by tryslora



Series: All Our Yesterdays [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Divorce, Ghosts, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mistletoe, questionable sanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson doesn’t expect to end up in a graveyard with his ex-husband, sitting on the cold dirt in front of a tiny fire, staring at the grave of his ex-girlfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows and Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> I knew this was coming in the series, and when the prompt of #32 - Ashes came up at fullmoon, I did a little research into mistletoe and it all fell together perfectly. As always, I do not own the world or characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them.

Jackson isn’t sure why he’s here, sitting on the ground, a beer in one hand, staring at a gravestone. It seemed like a reasonable idea when Stiles mentioned it as dinner ended, but after the last several days, “reasonable” is a variable term. As he watches, his ex-husband arranges a small bundle of twigs right in front of the stone and cups his hands over them. He holds his breath with Stiles, inhaling slowly and exhaling again when Stiles moves his hands and reveals the slow burning flame that has begun.

“Don’t inhale it.” Stiles sits down next to Jackson and nudges him out of the way. “Burning mistletoe is a common practice, and isn’t going to kill you, but I’ve seen it have some strange effects on werewolves.”

“This is a new habit,” Jackson observes.

“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one who hasn’t explained everything in the last decade.” Stiles leans his elbows on his knees, hunched slightly forward. “There are things I haven’t really shared with anyone because it’s just too complicated.”

_Weren’t you just here a week ago?_

The voice comes out of nowhere and everywhere. Jackson couldn’t say it’s spoken, more whispered among the leaves, arriving as a breath and disappearing again as a figure coalesces, sitting perched on the stone.

He stares, and she stares back at him in return, her mouth slightly open.

_Oh. My_.

“Yeah, I thought you might think it was worth disturbing you,” Stiles says quietly. He pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll just go over there and let you two reconnect privately.”

_Don’t you dare. Sit back down, Stiles Stilinski, because you are_ _not_ _going anywhere._

The tiny flames flicker and flare in brief echo of the indignation, and Stiles sits.

“Stiles.” Words fail Jackson. He doesn’t have a smart retort, a witty crack. There is nothing snide he can say, not with _her_ sitting there in front of him, or her shade, or whatever she has become.

“Please don’t tell me you’re waiting for an introduction. It hasn’t been _that_ long.” Stiles glances over at Jackson, and his brow furrows with worry. “Or. Oh crap. Can you see her? Can you hear her? Because honestly, it might just be that I’ve gone completely insane, because that _is_ a distinct possibility. That’s where I thought I was heading ten years ago until I got things figured out.”

_We_ _got things figured out_.

“Yes, credit where credit is due. I wouldn’t have managed it if Lydia hadn’t had a few suggestions along the way.”

“I can see her.” Jackson manages to get the words out, and he reaches for Stiles automatically, tangling their hands and fingers together and holding on tight. “Is that Lydia’s _ghost_?”

_Not exactly, and you can talk directly to me, you know._ The shade glares at him. _I can hear you, you can hear me, we can have a normal conversation_. _But remember, we don’t have much time._

Jackson glances at Stiles, and Stiles points to the small pile of burning sticks. “When that’s ash, we’re done,” Stiles says. “She’s here as long as the mistletoe is burning, and if you want to know the mythology of it, Lydia’s… not your typical spirit.” He tugs his hand free from Jackson, fingers curling and uncurling with nerves. “Normally mistletoe is burned to banish unwanted spirits.” 

_Which he tried._

“But for Lydia, it helps her cement her toehold in this world. It let us talk, so we cut a deal. She stays here…”

_I hate graveyards. But at least these people are already dead, not currently dying_. _Hospitals are terrible._

“…And I visit her regularly.” Stiles spreads his hands. “It’s a lot better than what we were doing before.”

“Which was?” Jackson is trying to take this in as calmly as he can; it is entirely outside of what he might have expected, although he should have known that nothing with Stiles is simple.

“She was haunting me.”

_Hush_.

“Do you have a better term for it?” Stiles rolls his eyes. “She was there, all the time. We couldn’t match up, so I kept thinking I heard her talking. _Screaming_ , sometimes, when she had to, because she’s still a banshee. Death hasn’t stopped that. And I was… I thought I was going insane.” He looks at his nails, and in a blink, Lydia is there, curled up tight against his side, still grey and shadowy, but seeming solid as she leans on Stiles.

“So when we—” Jackson still doesn’t have the words to form the right sentences, to express what he means, but he sees Stiles nod.

“Yes.”

Jackson stares at the pile of mistletoe twigs for a long moment, watching it burn steady and strong.

_Legend says that a young girl could burn mistletoe to learn how her marriage would fare. If it flickered and guttered out, the marriage would fail. But if it burned steadily, they would weather any woes and be together until death_.

“Thank you for the history lesson,” Stiles says dryly.

_Any time. Try listening to what it means, Stiles_.

Jackson knows what she is trying to say; he always had a way of understanding Lydia when she spoke, even though in the end he thinks she was closer to Stiles. He pushes himself to standing and silently opens his arms. She is cold when she comes to him, little more than wisps of midnight air that curl around him, brushing against his cheek in a chill kiss. But he holds her anyway, fingers drifting through her ethereal form before he lets go. “I’m guessing Stiles is the only one who can summon you?” he asks, because he’d like to come back sometime, alone.

“We’re linked, thanks to circumstances beyond anyone’s control,” Stiles says. “Yay lightning.”

_You’d miss me if I were gone_.

“Since we got past the part where you were trying to drive me completely insane, you’ve been my rock,” Stiles says easily, and Jackson recognizes the give and take of comfortable banter.

“How long do we have?” he asks, not sure how long the fire will take to burn out.

“Maybe fifteen minutes.” Stiles shrugs. “Sometimes it takes longer, sometimes less. Probably long enough to catch her up on the important things.”

_I know about the accident. Do you really think I would stay here when my own daughter cheats death?_

“Then we’ll talk about everything else.” Jackson sits slowly, the beer still in his hand, the taste yeasty on his lips when he takes a long gulp. “But next time I want to hear your story, Lydia.”

_Listen to Stiles’s story instead._

He will, he knows, because he has the idea there are things that Allison hasn’t known to tell him. There are so many perspectives in life, and as he speaks, he gives his own to a woman dead sixteen years. He speaks until the mistletoe crumbles to ash and the flames are done, and he watches when Stiles cools the embers with a touch.

“Come to dinner tomorrow,” Stiles says, and Jackson nods.

It isn’t much, but it’s a start, which is all anyone can ask.


End file.
